


Giving Honor

by dovingbird



Category: The Last Samurai (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovingbird/pseuds/dovingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night before their inevitable death, Algren feels driven to his mentor’s side to thank him somehow for his new outlook on life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving Honor

It doesn't matter that Algren's muscles are burning, that he's tired enough to want to slump over and sleep the night away. Not when his mind is occupied. Not when he's kneeling in his room and staring at the closed door, watching the events of the past year flash before him.  
  
He used to have nightmares. He used to only just be able to contain himself, and then only through a bottle of whiskey a day. But those are all gone now. Buried beneath a wave of discipline. A season of indefinite change and training.  
  
A blanket of respect.  
  
They will die tomorrow. All of them. Ujio. Bob, whom he can't bear to call by any other name at this point. And their leader.  
  
Katsumoto.  
  
Algren's quiet meditation is disturbed just by the thought of that man's name, the man who turned his life upside down and gave him a reason to live again. It doesn't matter that he now so intimately understands the importance of honor, of Samurai, of Bushido. Not when every muscle inside of him recoils at the mere thought of Katsumoto laying down his life for something, _someone_ , who does not appreciate it. Not when there are countless people who appreciate and honor and respect him as he deserves, who would mourn him for an eternity when he passed.  
  
It is a strange twist of fate that Algren is one of those people, isn't it?  
  
There's something beneath that respect, though. Beneath the admiration. There's the desperate need to protect the man. To preserve him so the world can learn from his words and actions, not just the stories of them. The need to watch his flank at all times. And something even beyond that, which he's legitimately a little frightened of exploring.  
  
That fear converts to nervous energy, buzzes in his very limbs, and before he knows it he's come to his feet. He's not sure where he's going until he exits into the warm air and he sees the candlelight flickering in Katsumoto's window. Of course the man would not be sleeping. Not tonight.  
  
He quietly lets himself into the man's dwelling, but pauses when he finds Katsumoto's bedroom door still ajar. He's sitting much as Algren was, and even though his eyes immediately hone in on Algren he doesn't say a word. Algren hesitates. Bows. When Katsumoto dips his head in return, Algren approaches.  
  
"I've been thinking," Algren murmurs.  
  
Katsumoto quirks a brow. "Yes?"  
  
"About how I still owe you an ending to your poem."  
  
Katsumoto breathes a quiet laugh. "And have you written one?"  
  
As Algren kneels down across from him he shakes his head. "I already told you I'm not a writer."  
  
"Your notebooks continue to say otherwise."  
  
"That's very different." He rests his hands on his thighs. "In my journals I just tell the truth about what I see."  
  
Katsumoto dips his head again. "As do I in my poem." There is a moment of quiet. "We are not so different."  
  
Algren snaps his eyes up to meet Katsumoto's. That buzzing in his limbs is building to a quiet surge. "Except that I owe you my life."  
  
It's slight, almost imperceptible, but Katsumoto's fingers curl ever so slightly on his thighs. Just enough to quietly rustle his clothing. "You owe me nothing."  
  
"You spared my life-"  
  
"And you saved mine. We are even."  
  
Frustration, tinging the edges of that surge. "It's more than that. More than my...my _physical_ life."  
  
They're watching each other again, and this time a thought comes to him, one he learned years ago, when he was still a farmboy gobbling up stories of glory and war from the dusty books in the small town library. The Spartans. Godlike men of battle. The defenders at Thermopylae. Bloodthirsty as anything, but strong and disciplined besides. He remembers reading how the men would go off to war almost constantly, how the eldest ones took young protegees under their wings. They did everything together. Were absolutely inseparable. Kept an eye on each other's weak spots. And, as their bonds tightened, as they welded together with each battle they fought side-by-side, the majority eventually became lovers, and it was then that they harnessed that intimacy, that protectiveness, and became an invincible pair, fueled by an almost savage need to keep each other safe.  
  
And somewhere deep in his brain, Algren had to admit it made a strange kind of sense. Because here was the evidence right in front of him.  
  
He loves the man. He does. But it is a strange kind of love. One he doesn't understand. One that's so different than any he's ever felt before. That was the polar opposite of the heat and yearning he felt for Taka. There was just...need. Intimacy. A connection that came when there were absolutely no secrets to be had, when lives had been put on the line time and time again just for the sake of preserving the other's.  
  
Things are beginning to meld in his head. He narrows his eyes slowly as paths and connections are made. "...I owe you everything."  
  
Katsumoto sits a little taller. "I ask for nothing."  
  
"You would refuse a gift?"  
  
Silence. Katsumoto did not abide by rudeness. Never had.  
  
Maybe it was because things made sense now. Maybe it was because they were going to be slaughtered tomorrow, dead to the last man. For whatever the reason Algren didn't hesitate to lean forward. To touch his hand to Katsumoto's cheek. To lean in.  
  
In a second Katsumoto is halfway to the other side of the room, eyes huge, scowling and staring at Algren like he'd never seen him before. "Algren..."  
  
Algren is on his feet too, trying to read Katsumoto's expression for what it was. Disgust? Disappointment? No. There is just...confusion. It pushes him forward, even though the second he's within range Katsumoto grabs him by the shoulder and holds him firm. "I mean no harm."  
  
"I do not understand."  
  
"I only meant to...to show you..."  
  
"To show me..."  
  
"...Katsumoto..." He sucks in a deep breath. "We...are going to die tomorrow. Both of us." He gestures vaguely toward the window. " _All_ of us."  
  
The man still looks shell-shocked. When his mouth opens, when he quietly says "It will be a good death," Algren wonders if he'd parroting phrases he's known since childhood as he attempts to get his feet back on the ground.  
  
"I only meant to show you the full extent of how I respect you." It sounds pathetic even on his lips. He wonders if there is any way, any number of words, that can somehow capture the weight of exactly how he feels for this man. He doesn't think it possible. "Of how...how I..."  
  
"Do not dishonor yourself in this way." Though his hold on Algren's shoulder is true, his desperate eyes never waver from Algren's own.  
  
"How?"  
  
"Here, we do not...it is not done."  
  
Algren thinks for a moment on the closeness of some warriors, of how Nobutada and Ujio used to stand hip-to-hip unlike many of the other men, let their eyes linger for a few seconds longer when speaking. He remembers a brief snippet in one of those books translated by Mr. Graham and how it told of occasional physical unions between a mentor and the young student he trained, binding, monogamous. Wonders if maybe Katsumoto already has a protegee that he's pledged his focus to. "Don't lie to me. I tried to know my enemy, just like you did. I read books and heard stories."  
  
Katsumoto frowns at him. The confusion is getting thicker. "You are not my student. You are a warrior. A man, not a boy."  
  
He sees it, then. Katsumoto is not denying him. Not really. He presses his hands into the man's shoulders, pulling fabric into his fists. "Maybe," he says softly. "But I am also not Samurai. The same rules...don't apply here."  
  
Katsumoto has lived a life of rules. Algren challenging them seems to lose him even more. He only repeats what he said before, this time in a bare whisper. "Do not dishonor yourself...in this way."  
  
"Where is the dishonor?" The mere thought is almost laughable. "You've given me a purpose again. A _self_. Don't you understand that?" Before Katsumoto can open his mouth, can interrupt him, Algren presses on. "I haven't had a purpose since I was seventeen years old. And I haven't had a self for ages. I've spent every night since Little Bighorn wanting to take my own life just to escape the damned screams, but you helped me regain my sanity. My _honor._ " Algren grips Katsumoto's collar, and his wrist is seized between bruising fingers to hold it still. "You have given me the greatest gift anyone could ever give." His voice drops to an urgent whisper. A breath, released into the open air like a handful of cherry blossom petals. "Let me honor you with something in return."  
  
Katsumoto is a disciplined man. The most disciplined man that Algren has ever had the fortune to meet. But something beneath his skin is wavering. Algren can see it in the way that the older man sweeps his eyes over every inch, every plane, of Algren's face, his brow lowering with intensity with each passing second. It makes Algren think of another man that he respected, that he cared for, that he might have even loved, and the way that he never reciprocated. How he abused that admiration with one whispered order the night their regiment rode to coat the ground with innocents. And Algren wonders how the hell he ever could have imagined such a man worthy of his respect when there were much higher beings only an ocean away.  
  
It is faint, barely even noticeable, but Algren's senses are so heightened at this moment that the slight relaxing of Katsumoto's fingers is unmistakable, and it takes no effort for Algren to draw his hands out of Katsumoto's hold. But he doesn't think the man can tolerate the intimacy of a kiss right now. Not when he reacted so violently to it before. His gift will have to be something more physical, more raw, an attempt to catch this man up in a rush of passion before he can push for something softer. It takes him only a second for that surge inside of him, that building curiosity, to decide.  
  
There is a ritual to donning a kimono, a pair of hakama, anything that these incredible people wear, and Algren knows that he is hopeless to replicate it. He has never watched one of these men dress in the mornings. It took twenty minutes of trial and error just to put on his first robes, and long periods of observation before he discovered exactly how he was wearing it incorrectly. He only hopes that if there is a ritual to the removal of these pieces of clothing, Katsumoto will forgive him for not knowing it.  
  
These clothes are made for functionality, not fineness. Any smoothness that the fabric might once have had has diminished with each repeated washing. But there is still something that makes his breath catch as he slides his fingers between Katsumoto's body and the sash holding his robe closed. When he glances up Katsumoto is watching Algren's hand with a different kind of intensity, a distant one, and he wonders if this is the first time he has been undressed by a man. He thinks of Nobutada with a faint pang, wonders not for the first time what ever happened to Katsumoto's wife. Wonders if the mere thought of her watching this from wherever she is now shames the man.  
  
Katsumoto beats him to it, in a rough voice that belies his apparent calm. "You feel no shame in this? In...in undressing me like a..."  
  
Algren carefully folds the sash in his hands. When Katsumoto doesn't go on, when no words seem to fit the situation, Algren simply lays the sash aside and lifts his hands to continue.  
  
Katsumoto is not a young man anymore. How could he be, with a son who was old enough to run an entire village? But there is still a beauty about his form that takes Algren's breath away, that churns up that admiration into something more. This is a man completely devoted to his craft. A man who has spent his entire life breaking himself down until he can resist anything that the world may throw at him. There are scars, countless scars, and recent bruising and knots from their flight from Tokyo and their training since then. But his skin is smooth. Heavily muscled and bristling with strength. And bathed in this candlelight, he no longer looks like a man. He looks like some otherworldly creature, perhaps a deity, from all the conflicting power and grace he radiates.  
  
Algren exhales slowly as he takes this man in, everything from his proud posture to his relaxed hands. He feels that strange sense of pride he always gets when he watches Katsumoto excel in his training far above and beyond what his fellow samurai give, as if _Algren's_ the one who's done it instead. It's an unfamiliar sensation, this pride. This respect. It's never quite been this strong before. He feels a bit like a child, wonders if this is what it's like for these young boys to watch their fathers and uncles win a training duel, perfect a new form, reach a new height. But there's more than that. It's an odd burning in his skin, just below the surface, something that only crackles all the more when the robe is folded and placed aside and Katsumoto's growing arousal becomes apparent. But the man does nothing to hide it. If he's still confused, still lost, he's tucking it behind a mask of intensity.  
  
It's natural, with all the building emotions he's feeling, for Algren to come down on his knees, as if he's going to bow. He even does a little, dipping his head just so. But then he adopts that fluid grace he's learned from these people and slides forward seamlessly, until he can lift a hand to touch the cleft of Katsumoto's hip and lean forward as he parts his lips.  
  
There's a gentle grip on his hair suddenly, and Algren snaps his eyes up, furrowing his eyebrows as Katsumoto speaks. "I cannot let you do this."  
  
He doesn't know how many times he can have this conversation before the surging desire turns to temper. "There's no dishonor in-"  
  
"No." Katsumoto does not interrupt. Even the thought of doing so, of being so irrevocably rude, typically makes him listen to whatever comment Algren has, even if it's made to anger him. The snap of his word makes Algren wrinkle his brow. "I mean that...I cannot let you do _this._ As if you are...my servant."  
  
He doesn't understand a damn thing, does he? "Katsumoto..."  
  
"I am not your leader. I never have been."  
  
"No, Katsumoto, you _are_ my leader, you're that and more."  
  
"No." Firm. Unyielding. Katsumoto straightens his spine even farther and stares down at Algren from his superior height. "You have been my enemy. You have been my student. But now..." His voice drops down, takes on a warm breathy quality that makes something inside of Algren swell. "...you are my equal." The older man helps him stand to his feet. For a moment he simply stands there, holding Algren's by the biceps, staring into his eyes, transmitting a thousand feelings and words and emotions that Algren can't even begin to imagine feeling, can't even comprehend just how deep Katsumoto goes beneath the cool surface of his eyes. And then he lifts his hands and begins to disrobe Algren in turn.  
  
He makes everything look like an art. Always has. For the year that Algren has known him, he has never seen Katsumoto fail or falter. Even the man's anger, when turned on him, has been perfect, in its own way. This act is no exception. Each fold, each movement, each layer of clothing, is set aside with flawless care. Just watching it is an education.  
  
They have never been men of few words around each other, given Katsumoto's passion for a good conversation and how Algren is always looking for something new to say. But he has become mindful of the power of silences in the past months. He feels it now, rippling down him like the tremors after a cannon blast.  
  
There is a pallet here, much like in every dwelling that Algren has seen. When they are both naked, when their clothing is set aside perfectly for later, Katsumoto turns and approaches it. He kneels down on the low bed and looks up, and Algren is drawn to him like a flame. He settles across from him and meets his eyes and is caught by what he sees there. Strength, yes, and power, and limitless confidence tinged with incredible amounts of humility, but something else. Uncertainty. Algren recognizes it from how often he saw it in his own gaze in the mirrors around Tokyo. And he knows then and there that this exchange, like all of their other ones, is some kind of dance or exchange. Katsumoto has invited Algren into his bed. The next move will have to be his.  
  
He touches a hand to Katsumoto's thigh and feels the way the muscle tenses right under his palm, even as the man betrays no sign of nerves on the surface. Slides his hand up his hip, his side, pausing when he can cup his ribs in one broad hand. There is a tentative hand on Algren's shoulder only a moment later, with a thumb brushing back and forth across his skin. When Algren leans forward to press his torso flush against Katsumoto's, he's not sure if the shaky breath comes from him or not.  
  
For a moment they hold the embrace, wrapping their arms tightly around each other, resting their foreheads against the smooth neck of the other. Nothing else is possible. There is some sort of current shooting between them like the tide of the ocean, some strange crackling fire that's bound to overwhelm them. But then Katsumoto shifts. He lifts his hips just a little, just enough, and there's a sudden pressure between the men that makes a camera's flash explode behind Algren's eyelids. He sharply gasps. Squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can even as he feels his own hips pulled forward by a string. It's almost bruising, the pressure, but there's a shockwave like lightning and adrenaline and sake and he can't do a damn thing to stop it.  
  
Somehow the two of them come down on their sides together, attached, bound by fate or karma or whatever the hell brought them together and refuses to let them loose, and Algren's hand finds Katsumoto's ribs again, digs into them while looking for some hold to keep him tethered to reality. If Katsumoto's drowning in the same tidal waves of incandescence, he's far better at containing it. He wraps a strong leg around Algren's hip and pulls him closer, until every inch of them is touching, until that starburst appears again and pulls a ragged moan from Algren's lips, until they find a slow and grinding rhythm between their hips and keep at it.  
  
It is quiet. There are no words. Only sighs. Only breaths. The occasional groan against the other's ear. The desperate clutching of each other's skin - fingers digging into shoulders, nails pressing into backs, lips touching necks and collarbones and jawlines with the barest of caresses. It is Katsumoto who wraps his hand around Algren's neck, who pulls him so close that their foreheads touch. But it is Algren who covers the distance. There is smoke and sweat on Katsumoto's lips. They come together again and again, matching the rhythm of their kisses to their hips, feeding each other their primal sounds and their air, and it's so goddamn _perfect,_ but there's something missing. It's a plateau that they can't get over. He slides his hands down Katsumoto's spine, feeling each dip and edge of the man's scars, before grabbing his hips and twisting his body until Katsumoto's seated on top of him.  
  
"Oh...!" That's _it._ When Katsumoto rolls his hips for the first time, when Algren lifts his to meet them, he knows they've crossed that plateau, that there's nothing in the whole goddamn world that could feel better than this. It's not just the arcing explosions of pleasure coursing through his body. It's the way they're connected, no longer by their minds, by how they are developing this unnerving tendency to finish each other's sentences, but by their bodies as well. It's the way they have saved each other's lives too many times by now. The way they'll both be dead by sunset tomorrow.  
  
Algren has never experienced a connection like this before. Somehow he knows that even if the unthinkable happens tomorrow - if he lives - he'll never feel something quite like it ever again.  
  
Katsumoto's thighs tighten around Algren's hips, and he hisses out a soft sound of approval. The kisses are a thing of the past when they're driving each other like this, but Katsumoto knits the fingers of one hand through Algren's hair, cradling his head against the floor, adding just one more layer of intimacy, of connection, to this one night together. There's a gasp against Algren's ear. A low, musical groan. They're leaving this plane. They're soaring toward something higher, something unfathomable.  
  
Algren is first, of course. He knows instinctively that he will never achieve the level of discipline that Katsumoto holds even if he could somehow devote the next fifty years to it. All he can do is grab hold of the man's hips and somehow holds his cries at bay, even as he brushes his fingers against the stars. He's only just come down when he feels Katsumoto let go.  
  
He's not sure how long they hold each other. How long they stay slumped on the pallet, limbs wrapped carelessly around the other, keeping each other warm. But at some point Katsumoto rises. He leaves Algren cold and curious on the floor as he approaches a small stand at the edge of the room. There is a bowl there, and a washrag, and Katsumoto brings both back to the bed, though even his level of discipline cannot hide the way his legs tremble just the tiny bit as he sinks back down into his kneel.  
  
Another ritual. Katsumoto bathes Algren, carefully washing away the remnants of their experience. He wipes the sweat from his brow and the dust from his hands. He even allows Algren to repeat the actions on him. They dress in silence, back-to-back, feeling the energy rippling through the air, feeling the remaining threads they are reluctant to snap. When Algren turns, Katsumoto is already watching him closely.  
  
"...tomorrow?" Algren asks softly as he adjusts his sleeve.  
  
Katsumoto offers a bare smile. "It will be a glorious day."  
  
They face each other. They bow. And Algren departs, aware that no matter what the next day will bring, those threads between them will only stretch. Never truly break.


End file.
